


Half the Man I Used to Be

by CaptainSunder



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Depression, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSunder/pseuds/CaptainSunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a zombie isn't all it's cracked up to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half the Man I Used to Be

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is being written for a friend of mine, [halfmarco](halfmarco.tumblr.com). She's fallen head-over-heels for the Jean/Marco ship, as have I, and all the zombie Marco artwork on tumblr inspired this. That and the fact that I haven’t seen many posts about how Marco reacts to being a zombie beyond that “Don’t look at me, Jean-sempai" stuff.
> 
> It should be noted that Marco is not really a groaning, mindless, brain-eating zombie--he's just not dead like he's supposed to be.

Something dripped onto his face, sliding down his cheek, and he blinked blearily. A dark shadow knelt over him, gray skies looming ominously above. Buildings surrounded them, some of them in bad condition, some no more than piles of rubble. Everything was coming into focus gradually, but at the same time it seemed strange.

The shadow leaned closer, and Jean's narrow eyes came into focus above a white bandana wrapped across his nose and mouth. They were watery and strained. Why was Jean crying?

"Marco?"

It sounded far away, underwater. He tried to reach up, maybe to touch Jean's shoulder, let him know he was alright, but his body felt heavy, tired.

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was the mere whisper of Jean's name.

Where were they? Why were they outside? His mind sluggishly worked the questions over, but it was like trudging through molasses.

Jean's voice became sharper, louder, and Marco realized his eyes had been slowly sliding shut. He struggled to keep them open, and through the haze of his mind he heard Jean begin to scream.

"Marco, keep your eyes open! Don't do this to me, you have to stay awake! Stay awake, move, do something!

He couldn't keep his eyes open, even with Jean right in his face now, begging Marco. Fists gripped his jacket, shaking him, but he could hardly feel it. More wet drops rolled down Marco's cheeks.

What was Jean begging for? Why was Jean crying? He'd be fine, he was just so tired.

He wanted to open his eyes, lean up, reassure Jean, but it was too hard, his muscles had other plans.

In the back of his mind, for a split moment, he wondered if he was dying. But Jean would be okay without him. He might be sad for a few days, but it would only make him stronger. Marco would miss him, but Jean would be okay.

Everything faded away.

 

Something jostled him roughly, but when he opened his eyes, it was dark. He was moving, and after a moment he realized he was being carried through a strand of trees. Though it was cloudy, there was enough moonlight to outline the branches and leaves sharply against the sky.

Relief coursed through him. He wouldn't have to miss Jean after all.

The shadowed face above him stared forward determinedly, until Marco said, quieter than he meant, "Jean?"

The hands holding him jerked, nearly dropped him, recovered.

"Marco?" Jean whispered, sounding strained and oh-so unbelieving. They'd stopped, and now Marco could feel the shaking of Jean's arms, his unsteady breathes as they rattled through his chest.

He had so many questions, but it was all he could do to croak out, "Where?"

"Don't worry." Jean started moving again, going quicker this time. The trees began to blur past, and Marco had to turn his face against Jean's chest or be sick. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm taking you somewhere safe. Everything will be fine. You'll be fine." The worry in his voice belied his words.

What was happening? Where were they going? Why shouldn't Marco be fine?

Once more he tried to think back, picking through foggy memories. Didn't something happen in Trost? The Titans had attacked, that's right. He remembered talking to Jean, in the supply HQ, and later distracting a Titan so Jean could could get away. But there were huge black holes in his memories. How had he come to be lying in the street? How did the battle go?

Were they still being attacked by Titans?

He tried to look over Jean's shoulder, but his body still refused to cooperate.

"Don't move," Jean said sharply.

He couldn't anyways, so he listened for the tell-tale rumble of a Titan's footfalls. But it was quiet, except for the thud of Jean's boots.

Weariness was taking him again. His eyes were growing heavy, and the leaves blurred together.

"Titan?" he managed, but Jean gave no answer, and Marco slipped away again with the thought that Jean hadn't left him.

 

"I don't know what to do!"

The panic in Jean's voice snapped him to consciousness, and Marco opened his eyes to a small room dimly lit by two candles. The walls were smooth wood and rough stone. It was sparsely furnished with a bench pushed up beneath the windows, a small table beside the bed he was lying on, and a chest at the foot of it.

Jean sat on a stool next to him, shoving something at Marco's side. He had to angle his head for a clearer view, and for a moment, he wasn't sure what he was looking at. The world seemed to tilt.

A gaping hole had swallowed his arm, the entire right side of his chest. Slimy, red-black piles of something were sliding out of it. Jean grabbed handfuls of the stuff, trying to hold it in place, but he didn't have enough hands to stop it all from pouring right back out.

Marco sucked in a breath. This couldn't be happening.

Jean practically jumped as Marco sat up sharply, chest heaving, left hand going for his escaping organs. They were cold and still, squelching wetly between his fingers as he grabbed at his insides, unsure of what to do next.

"What's happening!?" He was missing half his chest, how would shoving his organs back in help?

"I don't know, I don't--" Jean left off with a strangled noise of alarm.

He looked up, catching Jean's stare, mouth open but silent, face twisted in fear. Marco groped at his right cheek, afraid of what he'd find . He reached in, and in, and in, until his fingers caught on jagged bones and slick, frayed muscle.

He trailed his fingers across the bridge of his nose, then back again, blinking rapidly, but his hand fell sharply into nothing. His right eye was gone.

His fingers moved of their own accord, sliding through cheek muscle, across clenched teeth, until they tickled the back of his throat.

"Jean," he said, voice a whisper of barely contained terror. "What's happening?

For a long moment, Jean just looked at him, Marco's confusion and horror mirrored back, until finally he said, "I thought you died."


End file.
